The Lightsaber
by Ldihawk
Summary: Buried in the Imperial Archives is an ancient weapon bearing the scars of its owners. A series of stories based on a discovered lightsaber.
1. Discovered

Disclaimer: I do not own anything connected with Star Wars! No copyright infringement intended!

The Lightsaber

Jarlina Strechta adjusted a pin in her graying chestnut hair as she knelt over a ceremonial urn of an Outer Rim civilization long gone. Her brush darted over delicate etched designs, cleaning the dust of ages from the vessel's crimson surface. The optical enhancers she wore provided faint illumination in the dim temperature-controlled basement of the Imperial Archives. She set the vessel aside, breathing deeply the filtered air scented faintly of dust and disinfectants. Five hours and finally the object was whole- its' history and name restored-finally ready to be displayed or sold to a private collector. She carefully cradled it in her bony arms and placed it in a temporary display admiring her work. She'd served as curator here almost since the dawn of the empire. Her youth and middle age were spent more in the past than the present cleaning the artifacts and listening to the unspoken stories they contained. Each layer of grime stripped away from a relic revealed a story about the time and place and the person who owned it.

Her heels clicked rhythmically, echoing in the cavernous room as she padded down one of the hundreds of isles with its thousands of compartments stretching to the enormous vaulted ceiling. Each one of them contained a story waiting to be told. There were no windows, but her chronometer confirmed her feeling that it was late. She prepared to perform a final check before closing. Most of her assistants had already returned to homes and families. She briefly scanned the isles, her grey eyes flashing in irritation when she saw the open compartment. Damn intern probably forgot to close it! Stars—why did it always have to be the one on the top shelf? She stepped onto one of the lift platforms and grasped the handrail saying "level 10." She flinched a little as the platform shot upward and the safety shield hummed around her. When it stopped, she reached into the open compartment to reveal the pressure sealed container. She scanned its surface for the id tag containing a description, but the tag was missing. She rolled her eyes, making a mental note to fire her intern. She had no choice but to inspect the contents. "Down," she snarled. The platform descended, stopping with a slight thump.

Jarlina carried the box tucked under her arm and set it on her desk. She removed her optical enhancers and prepared to deactivate the desk lamp. She began to remove the lab coat and paused casting another glance at the container. She sighed and shrugged the coat back on. Carefully, she triggered the release mechanism on the latch hearing the hiss of depressurization. She activated the field enclosing her workspace to avoid contamination and placed a gloved hand into the box. At first, she felt only cloth. She retrieved it using specialized retractors. The fabric was coarse and brown—typical of anything you could by in a Coruscant shop in the last thirty years. What it was doing here with some of the greatest treasures of the galaxy she had no idea. She set the fabric aside and placed her hand into the box again. She froze when her hand touched metal. She felt along the surface feeling a cylindrical object slightly larger than her hand. Carefully, she lifted the item out of the box and adjusted the intensity of her work light. She scanned the item briefly with a hand scanner. It was covered with mud and grime, but the scanner revealed ridges and a switch. She leaned back, her heart racing. A lightsaber! Most of them were destroyed with their owners in the Purge of the Temple. She had the urge to glance over her shoulder, but she knew she was alone. "How did it get here?" she asked the silence.

The weapon repulsed her. She would turn it in at first light. Until then, she would at least clean it up. It was, after all, a historical artifact. Slowly, she used the microsprayer to clean the caked brown mud from the object, careful of the switch that could ignite the blade. After the mud was removed, she catalogued the weapon's design. Her work revealed an angular base with six ridges near the tip. The surface was chrome with black etched details on the handle. The belt clip near the base was broken, but the defect was easily reparable if she wanted to repair it. The object gleamed faintly in the light, its surface marked by scratches of battle. The design looked older, but she couldn't place it without research-much falling into restricted status. She studied the object, removing the oculars and the cumbersome gloves. She lifted the object to make a closer inspection and suddenly dropped it with a muffled scream. The weapon felt white hot.


	2. The Jedi

The Lightsaber: Chapter 2

First the blade saw honor and sacrifice:

_A carrion bird keens mournfully as it soars above the Sullustan sky. A young boy cries out in fear. Concealed behind a craggy rock, he watches his master deflecting blast after blast from attack droids, each one drawing him closer to the real enemy—a Sith. One by one, the monsters fall. There is a lull in the fighting and the boy, barely ten years old, runs to his master clinging to the folds of his robes. His master''s tone is stern but gentle. "I told you to stay on the ship. It's too dangerous here. You must hide." _

_The boy sniffles and his chin trembles as he tries to be brave. _

"_I want to stay here with you." _

_The master kneels in front of him and takes his small hand. _

"_My Padawan, you must live. Promise me you will run and not look back no matter what happens." _

"_I promise." _

_The tall, olive-skinned man brushes a tear from the boy's cheek. _

"_Now, run, child!" _

_The boy runs, shutting his eyes against the grit and destruction. He runs faster than he thought possible, but his path is blocked by a giant. The Sith stands blocking his path. He stands over two meters tall with a face barely recognizable as humanoid. Matted black hair falls into eyes even blacker. Deep black ridges scar his cheeks with etched tattoos and below that the skin is stretched and scarred with protruding spikes echoed in black wristguards and armor. He scowls at the boy revealing sharply pointed teeth. His massive muscles tense as he ignites his blood-red lightsaber. _

_The boy stands frozen then ignites his training saber. The Sith calls it to his hand, laughing, and sends the child flying. The boy lands on his back and uses the force to right himself. The Sith's eyes flash, yellow burning in the black orbs and he stalks foreward preparing for a killing blow. As the lightsaber descends toward the Padawan's chest, t__he Sith's blade is met by the emerald blade of his Master. _

_"Go—get out of here," his Master commands. The child scrambles to his feet and runs. _

_The combatants circle. The Sith strikes first in rage, his blade passing within inches of the Jedi's face. He strikes for the Sith's legs, but the Sith easily jumps over his blade and lands a kick that connects with his solar plexus, driving the air from his lungs. He executes a backflip to the rock behind him and the Sith follows. The Jedi's blade connects with the exposed skin of the Sith's arm leaving a deep wound. The injury only increases the Sith's rancor and he lands an elbow strike to the Jedi's ribs, one of his spikes leaving a trail of blood seeping through the man's robes. _

_The Jedi uses a force-assisted push to knock the Sith from the rock and leaps gracefully to the ground ready to end the battle. Before he can strike, the Sith executes an arcing backflip and lands behind him. The Jedi's mistake is fatal, and he knows he's lost. The Sith's blade sears the flesh of his back and chest and he falls. The saber falls from his hand, deactivating upon impact. Ranin Sar, renowned Jedi hero is dead. The Sith picks up the blade and clips it to his belt. His Padawan reaches the ramp of the ship, suddenly hit by waves of nausea. He collapses into the pilot's seat, reeling as his master's pain washes over him through their bond. Suddenly, the bond is torn away and there is only emptiness. _

_The Padawan vows to recover his master's fallen blade. _


	3. The Weapon Reclaimed

The Lightsaber

Chapter 3

Jarlina blinked and shook her head. She picked up the cloth fragment and knelt by the weapon, cautiously lifting it wrapped in the cloth. She gingerly touched its surface with one finger. The blade felt cool though only seconds passed. Jarlina shrugged and decided the heat she felt existed only in her mind. She inspected the weapon for damage and returned it to her desk. She passed the scanner over it again and noticed a strange half-moon marking on the side. Someone worked very hard to erase the emblem and a region of the metal was scored deeply. She isolated the medium used to make the mark and selected a solvent to recover the design. The meaning of the design evaded Jarlina so she documented it and continued her restoration.

The blade saw darkness and evil as the trophy of a Sith.

* * *

_The old Sith sits in his ebony throne and waits for his prey to find the trap. The underground chamber was once inhabited by the Natare-now it is lit with orbs of red fire. The tribal carvings on the walls have been burned away. The battle with his Master years ago left him scarred and cost him an arm, but the sacrifice is worth it. His master was too weak and now he wields ultimate power. Killing the old one was dissapointingly easy. He has many blades hanging from his belt, each one captured from a fallen Jedi. All of them are modified and converted to his Sith weapons. This one is stained with innocent blood of men, women, and children of all species. It no longer defends peace and justice. _

_He feels an old enemy approaching. He has waited for this day a long time. He can wait just a while longer. _

_The man enters the throne room of his enclave alone in a long, dark cloak. His blue eyes are calm and the Sith Lord can detect no trace of fear. _

_The Sith speaks in deep faintly accented tones. "I knew you would come to me. I have long awaited the arrival of my new apprentice." _

_The scarred creature rises and crosses to where the Jedi stands. The man's face is tan and lined by suffering. Unafraid, he stares into the eyes of the Sith lord. His gravelly, baritone voice is strong. _

"_I have returned, but not as your apprentice." _

_The Sithord's voice becomes menacing. "You try my patience. Why did you seek me out when you know you can never win. I could teach you so much more than the pathetic Jedi Order. I can give you unlimited power. Serve me and live." _

"_I'll never serve you! You have something that belongs to me. I've come for what's rightfully mine." _

_The Sith's lighsaber hums to life, pulsing between the two enemies. _

"_Choose your words carefully , as they will be your last." _

_The Sith launches toward him, shooting across the room. The Jedi's green blade meets the crimson one and he blocks the blow. The Sith attempts to force him backwards and aims a kick at his chin. The Jedi back flips out of range and the kick falls short. They exchange frenzied blows, faces lit eerily by the glow of lightsabers. The Jedi senses danger as the several of the orbs fly towards him. One narrowly misses his head and shatters on the wall, creating a blast of red fire that flares and dies. The Jedi pushes the other toward the Sith and it shatters between them, temporarily blinding both combatants. _

_The Sith uses the distraction to his advantage and rips stalactites from the ceiling. The Jedi reaches out with the force and slows their descent, sending most landing harmlessly at his feet. A smaller shard grazes his cheek, sending a trickle of warm blood down his neck. The Sith snarls, rage growing as the Jedi attacks with renewed strength, swiping at the Sith's thick legs. The Sith leaps over the blade and their blades lock, both men fighting for ground. The Sith Kicks out a booted foot and a sharp spike shoots out from the tip and stabs the Jedi in the abdomen, causing him to double over with the sudden pain. The Jedi uses a force push to hold the Sith at bay, struggling against sudden lightheadedness. He draws on the force to clear his mind and dull the pain. In a moment of clarity, he sees a weakness-an opening, but the Sith is already on his feet. The Sith's artificial left arm is stronger than a human limb, but it is also slower and cumbersome with its three clawed digits. He launches himself at the Sith with a burst of energy. The Sith kicks at his wounded side and narrowly misses. The Jedi, sensing his intention, sweeps the lightsaber in a daring feint and then drives the blade through The Sith's artificial arm, severing the limb. The Sith howls in anger and pain and the Jedi uses the moment to stab the Sith through the heart. _

_The Jedi, now an old man, sits alone in his quarters in the temple, holding his master's blade. Taking out his toolkit, he works to clean the weapon and etch the painted symbol of the Sith from the handle. It is hidden, but he knows it's still there beneath the varnish like a bloodstain. In a way, this is appropriate—a memory of the past—a memorial to the innocents whose lives were ended by the weapon. _

_He gives the weapon to his padawan. After his passing, his Padawan gives it to her Padawan and for many generations, the blade once again sees honor and glory. _


	4. Shame

Chapter 4: Shame

Jarlina searched the Imperial database for the symbol, but could find nothing. The symbol was similar to those depicted in ancient Sith legends and the design was certainly old enough to date back to the Sith wars, but she had no conclusive evidence. She glanced over her shoulder furtively and stood up. "I shouldn't do this, but here goes. Probably doesn't work anymore anyway." Her heart raced inexplicably as her finger edged toward the black button. She held the blade at arms length and pressed the button. She jumped when she heard the weapon's snap-hiss and felt the radiance of its emerald blade so close to her skin. She swung it in a slow arc as far as her arthritic joints would let her and turned it off. She consulted her old files. Based on the blade color, she had an answer. Sith weapons were traditionally red. While the blade bore a symbol of the Sith, its emerald color was a hue wielded by the Jedi of the Old Republic. The Sith markings were not original and should be removed. Even with its slight flaws, she possessed one of the last lightsabers in existence. A private collector would pay millions of credits for such an artifact. She set the weapon down and began the process of stripping the paint away and sampled a small amount to be analyzed. The analyzer chimed and displayed the readout. The design was painted in blood. "What other secrets are you hiding?" she whispered.

The weapon saw shame in the arms of a wandering thief.

_Only hours after the Temple fell, an old, sway-backed Devaronian climbs into the rubble over the bodies of the dead taking anything he can stuff in his worn satchel. He steps over the body of a small woman with long, black hair. In her ourstretched hand is a lightsaber. He looks over his shoulder and smiles, his pointed teeth gleaming. "I wonder how much I could get for this?" he says. "You won't be needing it anymore, my dear." He tosses the weapon into the sack and props himself up on his cane. Climbing out through a hole in one of the walls, he dislodges rubble and hears the boots of clone troopers. "Stop right there!" They caution. The Devaronian shrugs, turns and uses his cane to boost himself out of the window and into the street. He runs home even on his bad leg. The cane acts more as a theatrical device anyway. It helps him when he panhandles on the lower levels of Coruscant. He fairly dances into the shanty he shares with three other riffraff. He spins the human woman Mathil Tannik and picks up the small Chadra-Fan, Stait, who sqeals in protest. The Ithorian known only as Strike sits rather sullenly in the corner, his enormous head bobbing mournfully. _

"_You're late." Mathil announces. _

"_Yes, but I have such treasures to show you." _

"_Did you bring food?" Stait squeals. _

"_With what I have in this bag, we can all live like kings." _

"_True happiness does not come from wealth." Strike rumbles. _

"_Thank you, professor. I'll remember that the next time I pay your bar tab." _

_The Devaronian's horns turn deep maroon in excitement. _

"_Well—let's see it," says Mathil in her clipped accent. _

_The Devaronian pulls out a small bust of the finest keldspar crystal, a few blaster rifles, and the lightsaber. _

"_I am not impressed." the Ithorian intones. _

"_This still isn't going to put food on our plates," the Chadra fan utters slipping in and out of basic. _

_Mathil picks up the weapon and glares at him. "Strockma, what have you done?" _

"_I've just eased our situation a little." _

"_Where did you get this?" she asks pointing the weapon at his chest. _

"_I took it and everything else from the temple. Wasn't much to steal." _

"_You took this off the dead?" she asks wide-eyed. _

"_We have to get rid of it. It isn't right," the Chadra-Fan sqeaks. _

"_If you get caught with it, you'll bring the Empire down on us all," the Ithorian shouts. _

"_I'll get rid of it as soon as I find a buyer," the Devaronian reassures. "You won't have to smuggle anymore, Mathil won't have to dance, and Stait won't have to sell death sticks. We can all go legit." _

_Midnight passes and still Strockma clutches his treasure, his arthritic three-fingered hand drawing it from the pillow to caress its cold surface from time to time. He carries it outside into the black Coruscant night, hardly tranquil but somehow filled with promise as if each passing vagrant was saying, "Here is Strockma our King." He isn't alone. Sitting in the broken windowsill is Mathil, her long arms clutching her knees. In the moonlight, her skin glimmers faintly with body paint. _

"_What are you doing out here?" she asks. Her voice is thick with weariness. _

_She turns to face him and sees what he is too slow to conceal. _

"_Are you still carrying that thing?" _

"_Only till tomorrow my dear." _

_She jumps from the window and crosses to face him although her chin barely reaches his chest. _

"_You didn't have to do this. We were managing just fine." _

_He raises his voice now. "I did this for all of you. Do you think I like living in here while the upper class live in luxury on the upper levels? Do you think I like seeing you degrade yourself working in jizz joints?" _

"_Yes. I remember how lucky I was that you found me. I also remember being arrested when I was seven for selling glitterstim. I remember nearly getting shot when I was your lookout. Remember, it's you that made me what I am. No one born on the lower levels leaves." _

_Her face flushes crimson even under the layers of makeup. She reaches up and slaps him. He bares his needle-like teeth derisively. Strike hears the heated argument and lumbers out followed by Strait. _

_The Ithorian's voice is resonant. "What's going on out here?" _

_Mathil steps back and sweeps her long black hair over her shoulder. "Nothing. I'm going back to the club. At least I know what I'm dealing with there." _

"_Wait," the Devaronian calls. He turns to face the two beings glaring at him. _

"_She'll be back." _

"_What happened?" Stait pipes. _

"_She's jealous. She doesn't approve of my latest..aquisition." _

_Strike sighs causing his enormous chitinous form to droop. "There are some boundaries that should not be crossed." _

"_That's hypocrisy, friend." The Devaronian chuckles to himself. _

"_You fool," Strike says, "Mathil's brother was a Jedi. When her parents died, he went to live in the temple and the poor little thing was thrown out on the steets." _

"_I didn't know. She never told me." _

"_You never bothered to ask. I suggest you take that thing and get rid of it—NOW!" The Ithorian suddenly draws himself up to his full height. _

_The Chadra-Fan claws at his leg. "Yes. Get rid of it or don't come back at all." _

"_Fine. I'll leave. I would have given you some of the profits but now…" _

"_GO!" Shouts Strike. The Devaronian gathers his belongings and stumbles into the dark night heading for the upper levels of Coruscant._


	5. Chapter 5: The Collection

Chapter 5: The Collection

The last of the staff had left for the evening and Jarlina nodded off from time to time in her work. She methodically worked to clean the last of the scoring from the weapon's surface using a laser resurfacing device. It was nearly midnight as she lovingly polished its surface and pondered what to do with the artifact. It was far too dangerous to be placed in the Coruscant museum- surely the Empire would view it as blasphemous to place it on public display. She couldn't bear to see it placed in a temperature controlled prison where schoolchildren would come to leave their slimy handprints. If she left it here, it would go back into the infinite rows of shelves stored among the relics of fallen civilizations and forgotten. No. She knew what to do. Carefully, she opened her desk drawer and removed an ornate paperweight given to her by an amorous colleague and wrapped it in the brown cloth that once held the lightsaber. She wrapped the lightsaber in a sheet of insulating foam and placed it in the bottom of her oversized bag. Her heart raced as she slid the paperweight into the storage bin and returned it to the high shelf on which it would gather dust for the next hundred years. Maybe her successor would find it and speculate on its function. Somehow, she didn't think so. She left the building at a rapid pace although the real danger was over. To the Coruscant natives, she was only a harmless old woman. Still, the weight of her bag seemed to increase on the way to her mid-level apartment.

The weapon saw greed in the hands of a Collector.

_Anric Almaas stares at his beautiful wife as she sleeps, the moonlight illuminating her skin smooth as ivory. He leaves her and descends the jeweled staircase to sit on the benches surrounding the fountain bubbling musically in his arboretum. Surrounding the fountain are crowns and chalices and various ceremonial vessels. Paintings created by artists now long dead are silent specters on the walls. A statue gallery fills the main hall—her gallery really. His private study is filled with ancient weapons-befitting a former Imperial Admiral. He paces the study moving from the more modern Clone-War era blasters to the ancient spears fashioned of archaic metal alloys and wood. He catches his reflection in the display case—the strong, square jaw, black hair dusted with silver at the temples, and dark intelligent eyes. He knew why his wife commissioned a local sculptor to create a statue in his likeness. At fifty, he is still magnificent. _

_Almaas is collector of things and people. _

_He paces the study like it was the bridge of a Destroyer, arms clasped behind his back and head up. In the center of the room amidst the ancient volumes of history and tiresome philosophy tomes is his prized acquisition. The lightsaber rests on a throne of crimson velvet, sheathed and silent. He rests a hand atop the display case and contemplates the weapon's elegance. Possession of such an item would result in court-martial or death, but to a man like Almaas, that added to the thrill. He remembered the day he seized the weapon from an old Devaronian. The fool actually expected to be paid! He led him into his study and asked him innocently enough to examine a curved blade ironically used in Devaronian sacrifice rituals. The fool, Strockma, made the fatal mistake of handing him the weapon before receiving payment. It was so easy to stab the pitiful creature through the heart. He'd had to call in quite a few favors to have the body disposed of before his wife returned from her party. _

_His reflection is joined by another image in the glass. He turns to see his wife facing him, her dark eyes heavy with sleep. He brushes her deep auburn hair from her shoulders and kisses her. "There was talk at the party last night. They say the Rebellion is gaining ground—that the war might come to Coruscant." _

"_Don't let the loose tongues of traitors poison your mind, Elianna. Why don't you go into your arboretum and I'll have Marcus fetch you some tea." _

"_I don't want to sit. I'm worried, Anric. What if you're called back into service?" _

"_Then I will go and fight, my love." _

"_What if you die?" _

_He rests his hands on her shoulders. "I won't." _

_He enters a massive, cold edifice as pouring rain drenches Coruscant—the worst weather in years. He scans a badge and enters a room where a man—barely more than a teenager really is strapped into a chair. He is joined by a physician, a gaunt, tall man who long ago ceased to be a healer. "Shall I administer the drugs yet?" The doctor's voice is as dispassionate as a medical droid's. Almaas smiles in response. "Not yet. I want to have a talk with him first." _

"_Alright, but I strongly advise administering the drugs before the interrogation." _

_Almaas slides a chair loudly toward the prisoner and sits facing him. "The youth's jaw is set in defiance, but his eyes are wide in fear. _

"_Tell me have you ever been associated with or do you have any knowledge of the Rebel called Luke Skywalker?" _

_He places a gloved hand emphatically on the prisoner's shoulder and slaps his cheek lightly. "I want to make your life easy. Surely you can see that. Just tell me." _

"_I don't know him." The prisoner spits at Almaas. _

_He stands and hits the prisoner several times in the face. The prisoner's nose is bloody. _

"_I'm going to ask again. Where is Luke Skywalker? Tell me and you might live." _

"_I don't know!" The prisoner shouted. _

"_I have video surveillance of you evacuating the Rebel base at Hoth. I know you know something!" _

_Almaas reaches into a desk and retrieves a series of objects resembling surgical instruments and the prisoner's eyes grow wide in terror. The doctor turns away as Almaas raises the first… _

_Almaas exits the detention center hours later humming his favorite strains of Alderaanian opera. Among his possessions are some of the last surviving recordings. He passes the deplorable lower levels where he was born walking briskly until he reaches the upper level apartment. His wife sits on the dais in the arboretum looking through its glass ceiling at the stars. She watches the battles raging in the distance, faint bursts of orange and red. She draws her red shawl tighter across her shoulders. _

_He bends to kiss her forehead but she pulls away. _

"_I want to leave." _

"_We'll take a vacation—somewhere sunny and warm." _

"_No. I'm going home," she insists. _

"_Let's talk. I'll have my servant fix you some tea," he pleads. _

_She stands up. "Don't bother. I finally had Marcus run an analysis of the ingredients in that tea. I know all about its sedative properties." _

_He backs away. "Please. Let me explain. I only did it to help you." _

_She walks away. "My bags are packed and I've arranged for safe passage." _

"_Don't leave—of all my treasures—you are the greatest one." _

_From his belt, he pulls a blaster while her back is turned and aims. For the first time, his hand shakes. _

_Suddenly, he feels a blaster digging into his back and before he can move, a rough arm pins his throat. The sound of voices fills the room. His weapon falls to the floor and he struggles against the man. Another stands before him. His wife turns to watch- a sad, strange smile on her lips. "There's only one problem—I was never yours!" _

_Another stands before him—he recognizes him from Intel files as a Rebel commander. "She started working for us six months ago—It seems she got tired of being part of your collection." _

"_Traitor!" Almaas gasps. Rivulets of sweat pour down his face. _

"_You've got so many pretty things," one of the men commented. _

"_They're priceless. What would scum like you know about it."_

"_We have to take him back to headquarters, "one of the men states. _

"_He killed my little brother in one of his…interrogations!" The man in front of him growls. _

_They look at his wife. Almaas sees no help in her eye. "Do what you want with him." _

"_What about his collection?" The Rebel commander asks. _

"_Burn it to the ground if you like but make him watch," the woman replies. _

"_No—please!" Almaas begs for the first time in his life. _

_They drag him outside as charges are set by others inside. When the last one leaves, an explosion rocks the house and flames spurt from the windows. Almaas sinks to his knees defeated and the rebels haul him to his feet. In a vicious moment, he rises and evades his captors. They pursue him, but he runs into the inferno. "We have to go in and get him!" one the leader shouts. "No—he's dead anyway!" answers Elianna. _

_Hours later, a forensics team determines the source of the fire. Salvage teams determine that nothing can be saved. The bodies of Almaas and his wife are not recovered, but the team is unconcerned. A report is filed stating that their bodies were destroyed in the fire. _

_Far below in the oppressive gloom and garish neon of Coruscant's red light district, a beggar bound in tattered robes mumbles to himself and rubs bandaged hands together outside the Outlander Club. He reaches into a pocket and retrieves an object roughly the size of his palm and wrapped in coarse cloth. He holds it tightly for it is the last scrap of his glory. His other hand darts into his pocket withdrawing a flagon of Corellian ale. He guzzles the liquid, ignoring the fire in his throat. He leans against the club's wall, eyeing the scantily clad hedonists with disdain. He wanders the city like this for months and eventually disappears to become another ghost story told in the lowest levels of Coruscant. _

Jarlina awoke to a deafening clamor outside her apartment. She reached under her pillow feeling relief when her hand touched the cool metal of the lightsaber. She awoke and dressed for work knowing what she had to do. As much as she longed to keep the weapon, somehow she knew that keeping it could only bring her trouble. Her vidscreen chimed. Her body tensed. It was too late. She'd been seen on the security footage and she was going to disappear into the Detention center. She concealed the lightsaber in her bag and flicked the com on. The face of her superior appeared his broad face grey and drawn. "Jarlina- don't come to work today. The impossible has happened."

Her heart quickened in fear. She managed to ask, "What happened, Matchik?"

His voice caught in his throat. "Citizens are rioting in the street. We can't hold them off forever!" She exhaled in a silent expression of relief. "I don't understand.."

"Jarlina…The Emperor is dead! He died on board the Death Star along with Vader and all the commanding admirals!"

She fell back into a padded chair and rubbed her temples. "What about the Grand Moffs and the Regional Governors?"

"The ones that weren't taken prisoners are in hiding! I've taken the liberty of purging all employment records so you won't be tracked."

"You've got to get out of there now," Jarlina replied.

"It's just Rael and I now. When the Rebels come, we won't fight them. You were a good employee. Long live the Empire."

The screen flashed and went dark leaving Jarlina alone with the lightsaber.

After a hiatus, I am debating continuing this with more vignettes if there is still interest. I am in the process of rewriting and editing all chapters and taking into account the very helpful suggestions of reviewers (finally).


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